


Even Lovers Drown

by orphan_account



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gross, Humiliation, Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Watersports, degredation, i'm sorry it exists, pissplay, this story has no excuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9789095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: By the time the meeting starts, it’s too late to excuse himself to go to the washroom to relieve himself, and but the time this thought occurs to Daud he realises that he has in fact not relieved himself all day. By the time the meeting is halfway done he’s remembered every single glass of water he’d downed – at least five – and he’s feeling every single drop in his very full, very painful bladder while the Prime Minister drones on about tax reform.Daud isn't even remotely ready to analyse this about himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story has no excuse. I’m sorry. Someone is responsible for all of this and you know _exactly_ who you are. 
> 
> Make sure to check the warnings – watersports/pissplay, humiliation kink. Don’t like don’t read, etc etc. If none of that has turned you off, then please enjoy!

By the time the meeting starts, it’s too late to excuse himself to go to the washroom to relieve himself, and but the time this thought occurs to him he realises that he has in fact not relieved himself all day. By the time the meeting is halfway done he’s remembered every single glass of water he’d downed – at least five – and he’s feeling every single drop in his very full, very painful bladder while the Prime Minister drones on about tax reform.

And on. And on. _And on._

Daud shifts in his chair, eyes flicking towards the grandfather clock, crossing his legs one way under the table then another way. He contemplates tapping into the Void and halting time. It wouldn’t be for long enough to get to a washroom and back before time resumes and the other ministers around the table realise he’s vanished before their eyes, but it might be just enough to drop his pants and piss out the window, and he very nearly does this until he remembers that Corvo Attano is sitting there, too. Right at the head of the table, staring at him shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

And Corvo Attano is immune to the effects of the Void.

Just his fucking luck.

Daud breathes, controls himself, and doesn’t let his eyes stray to the clock again until the meeting is over.

“All right,” Attano eventually says after what feels like an eternity, “thanks, everyone. Dismissed.”

The ministers start to shuffle towards the door. Daud by and large considers himself a gentleman – a self-stylised civilised killer – but the pressure in his bladder reminds him of that bloated seal carcass he and his childhood friends poked with sticks on the shores of Karnaca, prodding until the skin burst and they’d run away howling with the sort of intrigued disgust only street-rat kids could feel. So no, he has no plans on being a gentleman; he starts to shove aside the ministers doddering towards the door, stepping on feet and elbowing at least two elderly men in the ribs. There’s a washroom just down the corridor, he thinks. He can make it. It’ll be _fine_.

“Not you, Daud,” Attano says sharply, halting him before he can make his escape. “You can stay behind.”

“What for?” Daud bites out, with a disrespect he hasn’t quite yet shown before to the man who spared his life and offered him a way to repent for his crimes.

Corvo lifts an eyebrow, waiting until everyone else has shuffled out of the room. He closes the door and crosses his arms. “I want your report, please.”

“ _Now_?” Daud says, outraged, resisting the urge to cup his balls and dance from one foot to the other.

Attano shoots him a dismayed look. “Yes,” he says, “now.”

The bastard. He knows _exactly_ what he’s doing – well, maybe not exactly, he obviously just knows that Daud wants to get out of here as soon as fucking possible – and that smug look on his face just serves to make Daud angrier.

“I don’t have it _with_ me,” Daud grits out, which is a ridiculous thing to say because he never ‘has it with him’, he just has his set days and times for when he needs to pass along the information he’s gathered. It’s all there in his head and he could recite for Corvo anytime he damn well pleased, but all of his blood is focused on making sure he doesn’t lose control of his bladder. Every single moment Attano makes him wait, he must endure his piss sloshing from side to side like ocean waves battering at the walls of his bladder. Daud clenches his jaw.

“Attano, I swear, if you don’t let me out of here –”

“You’ll what?” Attano needles, smirking wickedly.

 _I’ll piss myself_ , Daud doesn’t say. “Get out of my way,” he snarls instead, but Attano cuts in front of him, blocking the entrance.

“Why?”

“ _I need_ ,” Daud roars, “ _to leave!_ ”

Shouting, he realises numbly, was a mistake. The muscles he was using to hold himself together release when he raises his voice, and it’s like the floodgates of a dam bursting. He feels the rush of hot liquid first; the instant relief in his bladder as urine streams out of his dick, flooding his pants as surely as the sea consumed the Flooded District when the wall crumbled. He stands there, barely managing to restrain a moan of utter respite as his bladder empties, in shock as he urinates himself. The urine stains his pants and he stares down at himself and the wet patch spreading across his clothes, too horrified with himself to even speak.

There’s a long, mortifying moment of silence.

“Oh my God,” Attano blurts out, staring Daud’s crotch, and begins to laugh.

The stink of urine stings the air and every single instinct of his is screaming for him to transverse away out through the window, even if there’s nothing on the other side for him to grab hold of so he’ll just end up plummeting to his death, and yeah, he thinks he’ll be fine with that because he just fucking _wet himself_ in front of Corvo fucking Attano.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Attano manages to say through rib-breaking laughter, and Daud’s face feels as though someone has shoved it into the fireplace. “You couldn’t work out how to get to the _bathroom?_ You couldn’t _hold it?_ You disgusting idiot. Even nobles can work out how to get to the washroom and they’re dumb as fuck.”

The last time Daud cried, for any reason, was so long ago he barely even remembers – but here he is, former assassin, the Knife of Dunwall turned Royal Spymaster, forty-three years old and too weary of the world for anything to affect him anymore, now on the verge of tears. Daud does not do weakness, and the last person who laughed in his face ended up with a broken nose and two missing front teeth.

But he can’t even lift his hand to form a fist to slam it Attano’s laughing face because it’s as though a switch has been flicked on in the back of his mind; as though something about Attano’s words and the sound of his laughter and the feel of cooling sodden fabric clinging to his thighs and crotch and the shameful stench of his own urine has broken the nerves and flow of thoughts and connection from his mind to his body, like a corrupted bone charm hissing and crackling and distorting one ability in favour of another.

To his own abject horror, he feels himself growing hard in his urine-soaked pants, the swell of his cock tightening the fabric against the wet splotch of shame which makes his face burn. He’s frozen to the spot, unable to move at all, and Attano hasn’t noticed yet because he’s _still laughing_. He bites back a groan and clenches his fist, because all the sound of Attano’s scorn and derision does to him is make him want to shove his hand into his own soiled pants and jerk himself off hard and fast, right now, in front of Attano while he laughs at him.

“Look at you,” Attano sneers. “You’re pathetic!”

A noble who tried to cheat him out of his fees called him pathetic once; the noble ended up with a sword through his throat and died in an empty house that Daud and his men looted for everything it was worth. Hearing the word from Attano’s mouth just makes his cock twitch violently and he feels the head of his erection start to leak against the soaking wet fabric with precum. He can’t stop himself; he groans properly this time and clenches his fist again, resisting the urge to press his hand to his hardness.

He fails.

Attano notices the movement and glances at Daud’s crotch, where his hand now rests, cupping himself fiercely through the sopping, disgusting fabric. It takes him a second for Attano to realise what he’s looking at, but when he does the laughter stops and he just – _stares._

Daud wants to die. He imagines his expression must be caught halfway between lethal mortification and shameful, wanton lust. He feels ruined, like his life really did end that day in the Flooded District with Attano’s sword to his throat, and this is some kind of sick afterlife designed by the demons of his own mind. Demons that apparently _like_ it when Corvo Attano makes him piss himself then calls him pathetic and disgusting, and just thinking about the way he’d laughed at him is almost too much. His pants are cold and uncomfortable and the smell is revolting but he can’t stop his hand from pressing against his aching length through the sodden fabric, and he feels Attano’s eyes flick up to his burning face then down again to his hand which treacherously moves across his erection.

Attano doesn’t laugh again, but he does release a strangled sound which forces them both to meet each other’s gaze.

 _Oh_ , Daud thinks. _Fuck_.

Silence stretches out between them as they stare at each other, Daud’s face burning and Attano’s eyes wide and his lips parted as though he’s stopping himself from speaking.

Daud _definitely_ wants to die.

Attano closes his mouth and audibly swallows, while Daud stills his hand before he can rub himself again because he knows if he does he won’t be able to stop and then he’s going to come, right in his urine-soaked pants and right in front of Attano who just saw him piss said pants, and really, hasn’t he been humiliated enough for one day?

Not enough, obviously. The thought of Attano watching him soil himself again makes him bite back a sob of silent, violent fury at himself and his balls ache with the need to come. But Attano finally averts his gaze and shrugs off his jacket, shoving it into Daud’s free hand – then steps away, and vanishes in a rush of ash as he Blinks out of the room.

Daud chokes a little and stares at the jacket he’s clutching in the hand that isn’t currently palming himself, and after ten seconds of staring at the wet patch spread across his crotch, he realises what he’s meant to do with it. With a shaking hand he wraps the jacket around his waist, and transverses out of the room.

His quarters aren’t far, but he doesn’t even make it to the washroom. He staggers through the door and clumsily locks it behind him, and pitches forward on his knees with a sob barely five steps into his room. He dumps Attano’s jacket before him and his shaking hands fumble for the belt buckle but he’s too far gone to even pull the stinking pants off. He just shoves his hand down into the soaking fabric to wrap it around his leaking erection, and furiously begins to wank himself.

The older he’s gotten the longer masturbating usually takes, and that’s fine. He doesn’t often get himself off, just sometimes in the mornings, maybe once a month if he happens to wake up with an erection, slowly pumping himself to completion to enjoy the gentle build and release that he rarely experiences. Sometimes it takes five minutes, sometimes fifteen, sometimes longer, because little – before _this_ – has ever aroused him.

This takes him maybe thirty seconds. He kneels there on the floor with his hand down his cold and soaking wet pants, wishing the piss was still warm, hearing Attano laughing at him and calling him disgusting and pathetic, and he groans and moves his hand across his leaking dick faster, thumbing the slit. He raises his left hand to his mouth and catches the tip of leather in his teeth to tear the glove off, and yanking his Marked hand out so that he can shove that down his filthy pants too to cradle and squeeze his straining balls as he furiously pumps his slick cock. He hears rasping grunts for air which he distantly recognises as his own desperate panting, and a sob swells in his chest that turns into a choke, feeling his release building in every nerve ending, trembling through his body.

Then he thinks of Attano, standing over him, _watching_ him with disgust his eyes and laughter on his lips, and with a hoarse cry Daud spills his hot, sticky release all over his hand and in his urine-soaked pants, groaning through it until he’s spent and sagging on the floor, his face pressed against Attano’s jacket.

He doesn’t cry. But he does sniffle pathetically, and after several long minutes of staying in that position, his face shoved in Attano’s jacket and his hands down his pants sodden with both urine and come, he pushes himself upwards.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and strips the cold, wet pants off his body to throw them down the clothing chute, pitying the poor maid who will have to wash them. His face burns again and he stinks of urine, spent from the force of an orgasm he had no business having, and can do nothing but limp his way to the shower where he can wash himself of his own filth. Which he does, successfully, for a good twenty minutes just standing under the hot streams of water.

Then that treacherous part of his mind strays from his determination to think about absolutely nothing and starts to think about Attano laughing at him again, Attano’s hand undoing the belt buckle of his pants to pull out his cock, and suddenly the water isn’t cleansing and purifying, washing away his filth – the water becomes Attano’s piss, the hot rush of liquid running down his face, his shoulders, his chest, and his face burns and his cock twitches violently again.

With a furious groan, Daud presses his head to the wall and lets the water stream down around him. He still doesn’t cry, but he sure as hell wants to because he’s not even _remotely_ ready to analyse this about himself.

His hand, though, is perfectly ready to go for round two.

**Author's Note:**

> There may be a follow-up. *shifty eyes*


End file.
